


thrilled by the still of your hand

by missveils (Missveils)



Series: Inquisitor Dáire Lavellan [20]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: But also, Established Relationship, Hook-Up, M/M, Mask Ball, Masks, Tevinter Imperium (Dragon Age), there's an illustration at tne end with a butt on it just..... so ur warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26034814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missveils/pseuds/missveils
Summary: listen, this is 100% self-indulgent and makes no sense but sometimes you gotta read tevinter nights, wonder “what if there was a masked ball in minrathous and both the inquisitor and solas were there and they recognised each other in the crowd and hooked up?”(it gets a lil horny at the end because i was listening to hozier as i wrote it)
Relationships: Fen'Harel | Solas/Male Lavellan, Male Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Male Lavellan/Solas
Series: Inquisitor Dáire Lavellan [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1694902
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	thrilled by the still of your hand

Tevene music is grating and repetitive and matches the conversations fluttering around them perfectly.

He had decided to accept Dorian’s invitation after Ellara had begged him nonstop to please go with her.

_“You’re the one that enjoys this. Not me,” he had replied. “This is your show now.”_

_“Enjoying the clothes and the food does not mean I don’t find Tevene politics terrifying.”_

_“You loved talking your way through the Game in Orlais.”_

_“Orlais was not filled to the brim with evil Magisters. I would honestly feel better if both of us were there.”_

Still, after three “Herald, what a surprise to see you-” and four “Ah, if it isn’t the Inquisitor-!” and one “Bold of Magister Pavus, to bring the Heral-” Dáire had retreated to one of the armchairs in the corner to… sulk, as Magister Tilani would have put it. After a while, his sister joined him, sat on the arm of the chair, and made sure to pass him food from time to time so he wouldn’t starve.

And now Dáire was spending the evening watching the dancers come and go, the servants exchange notes and secret gifts between the guests, and in general trying to become as invisible as possible.

But one of the dancers, he has been watching for a long time. The man with the long black hair and the mask covered in golden scales. The way he moves, his gestures. There is something terribly familiar about him.

“Everything okay?” asks Ellara, as he stands from the armchair and takes a few slow steps.

“Yes, just a moment.”

He crosses the ballroom towards that man, wading through dancers and ignoring conversation starters. He has moved aside to chat with one of the nobles.

Oh.

He would recognise that fake polite smile anywhere.

He grabs the man’s arm.

“You.”

Solas turns, and Dáire can see the pale blue eyes through the mask, just widening slightly. He swiftly takes the hand around his arm in his other hand and it feels like electricity just shot up through his arm.

“Herald, you honour us with your presence. Would you accept a humble offer to dance?”

Dáire doesn’t know whether to laugh or cringe at that fake Tevene accent, or just punch him there and then. But it seems to have fooled the other guests conversing with him.

“Oh, don’t bother,” says a man next to him. “No one has been able to dance with the Herald tonight.”

Without a word, Dáire nods and they step into the group of dancers. Dáire does not even recognise the music, and is not sure his feet are responding properly, but hopes everyone is already too drunk to pay attention or care.

“I was not expecting you to be here,” Solas whispers, in his own voice, once the music is playing around them.

He holds Dáire close, making sure to lead his faltering steps.

“Why?”

“A magister had to die. Too dangerous of a task for anyone but me to handle.”

“ _Had_.” A bitter laugh escapes Dáire’s lips. “You know that… If Ella figures out you are here-”

“There is someone always making sure to steer her away if she gets close.”

Solas turns his head to the side, and Dáire follows his gaze. Ellara is making their way towards them through the dancers. A swift servant walks up to her and whispers something that seems urgent in her ear. She shoots a look at Dáire that seems to ask: Do you need rescuing?

Dáire forces a smile and shakes his head. His sister’s face softens and she turns to follow the servant out of the room.

The smile fades as he turns back to Solas and the dancing. Looking back at his eyes proves more difficult than he thought so he looks down at his own bare feet, skimming over the black marble floors.

“How many?” he asks.

“All the servants hired specifically for the evening. Some of Dorian’s own.”

Dáire scrunches his face. “Ah.”

“Minrathous is… far more cutthroat than you think. They have kept many dangers away from Dorian’s door, and from you.”

“I didn’t ask for it.” Dáire finally lifts his eyes and fixes them on his.

“A young lady’s chaperone slipped poison in your sister’s drink tonight. It was one of my agents that dropped the tray with the glasses..”

Dáire’s eyes dart around the room as if he could even tell who was behind the masks.

“Both the lady and her chaperone were dealt with by the same servant. It seems like none of them could handle wine very well.”

Dáire’s thumb runs lazily over Solas’ hand.

“Solas?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you still here?”

He does not reply, but the hand on his waist becomes tighter. The dance is slow and repetitive, just like the music, and reminds Dáire of the one they shared years ago in Halamshiral. How he had spoken of the music they played in their clan, the songs his sister liked to sing, how he wishes Solas could meet them and they could dance to the melodies that were part of his heartbeat. Not this.

Thunder roars from outside. Most of the dancers stop to walk towards the high windows and look at the storm. Several couples pour into the ballroom from the gardens, laughing under spells to keep them dry.

Holding Solas’ hand, Dáire steps against the flow of the crowd and into the gardens, the leaves of the trees glowing as they walk away from the cobbled paths. Dáire takes off his mask and throws it on the grass. Solas’ arm has never left his waist.

They stop when they are far enough from the mansion, the ballroom, any path full of carousing magisters.

“You could just tell everyone that I am here.”

Solas leans his back against a tree. His face still covered by the stupid mask and the stupid rainsoaked wig.

“And then what?” Dáire stands in front of him, a glowing bush behind him. His shadow cast over Solas. “Assuming I could even run back and reach the ballroom. I know what kind of magic you can do.”

“I would never.”

“You might have to.”

Dáire is not sure if he reaches for him first or if Solas does, but their hands meet each other again naturally, their fingers interlocked.

“If I run back and tell them, what happens next?”

“I would not be here by the time anyone came back to comb the gardens,” he admitted.

“Why would I want to cut this time with you short, then?”

Dáire pulls at his mask, which comes off along with the wig. He lets go of Solas’ hand to cradle the face he has missed for so, so long.

“Dáire…”

His name dies as a sigh in his lips as Dáire, in his tiptoes, leans on him and kisses him. Solas tilts his head down. One of his arms circles Dáire’s waist, the other one falls, as it always does, on the back of his neck.

Eventually, he also the one to break the kiss, breathless, leaning his forehead against Dáire’s and closing his eyes shut. He lets go of Dáire’s waist to hold his hand again.

“You could kill me now, and I would let you,” he breathes out with a faint laugh. “It would save you many problems in the future.”

“Solas?”

“Yes?”

“Stop talking about death and the future, please.” He squeezes Solas’ hand so tight their knuckles start turning white. “Would you stay with me? Just until morning?”

Solas’ eyes on his widen, then close again almost as if he was wincing in pain. He is thinking of what to say, what to reply to that question. Eventually, he nods. And he leans down to kiss Dáire again.

“Then,” Dáire says when he breaks the kiss for air. “Talk about now. Tell me how many heartbeats have you counted with your finger on my wrist.” Their lips meet again, more desperate than before. “Tell me how you keep your hands on the back of my neck because you’re expecting them to tangle on my hair.”

“I liked your hair,” Solas whispers, against his cheek.

“I know.”

Solas’ arms surround his waist again and Dáire lets out a sigh as he rests his head on his shoulder. With the rain falling on them, and everyone back in the mansion, for a moment he can believe this is just a few years back, that they are standing in the forest, with warm summer rain falling on them.

And back then the sky was literally falling but their time was not counted.

_After the breach is closed, will you ride with me through this valley, just the two of us, no stumbling upon rifts, no demons wandering between the trees? After Corypheus is defeated, will you come with me far away from this continent, walk into the Tirashan, into the Korcari Wilds, to find the dreams they hide? After I’m no longer the Inquisitor, can I still be your vhenan?_

He still finds himself repeating it as if the Breach was not closed, as if the Conductor had not been dead for years.

They make their way back into the mansion, hand in hand, masks over their faces. As they walk the empty corridors and cross the odd servant that is not working at the party, Dáire wonders: how many of them are working for Solas? How many of them know who the man walking with him is?

As Dáire walks them into one of the ridiculous number of empty guest rooms Dorian has, as they lock the door behind them, as Dáire lays him on the bed, he wonders: how many days have passed since the last time he had seen his eyes?

A ghost pain shoots through his left arm.

How many days will pass until he can see them again?

Dáire refuses to sleep until the birds start singing in the gardens outside. In the dark, with Solas still holding him, he thinks about how stupid both of them are, how dangerous this is, how Dorian would react if he knew that the man trying to rip apart the Veil was sleeping in his own house that night.

But he also thinks, who cares? For a moment, he was holding his vhenan and not a weapon. For a moment, he could rinse his lover’s bloody hands in the rain.

None of them is dying that night. None of them has to fight. The stars still shine outside. The sky is not falling. The sky is not falling.

**Author's Note:**

> Dáire Lavellan belongs to @littlegumshoe (on tumblr). have some art for this fic that they've drawn!: 
> 
>   
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> 


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